Corporal Works of Mercy
by Queenscream
Summary: A man who asked for nothing learns that some acts of mercy should never be repaid. Pre-comic. Rorschach is a horrible person. :D


_"Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not take care of you?" Then He will answer them, "Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me."  
_**-The Book of Matthew 25:45-46**

If he had to put how much he missed Los Angeles into one word, it'd be "sunshine." It was always warm there, so much so you could count the number of clouds in the sky for a week on one hand. Memories of the sun baking through his cassock while standing on the steps of Saint Brendon's were enough to make his gut twist with longing. But it was never profound enough to want to go back. Divine intervention couldn't bring him back to the place, no matter how much he craved for a little sunshine.

No matter the weather, Manhattan always looked gray to him, gloomy and overcast. He did not hate this city, but he didn't much care for it either. It was always so pushy and impersonal, like you didn't even exist among the masses. However, on the bright side (so to speak), it was one of the greatest places on the east coast to get yourself lost in, to blend and disappear into. Just another face in the crowd, Samson Brahms walked home.

The shopping district was a short walk away and without the confinement of his old vow of poverty, he could make an easy enough living writing technical manuals from home. He never left his loft much these days; there was nowhere to really go even if he wanted to. Simple groceries in hand, he fumbled in his coat pocket with his free hand for his house key as the mess of close together brick buildings he called home came into view.

It was a decent enough neighborhood that he could comfortably walk around at night without too much worry. Stopping under a street lamp when the keys in his pocket were clearly trying to avoid capture, he placed his grocery bag on the ground and used both hands to search all his pockets. Finding the sneaky things, he bent down to retrieve his groceries when the previously held secure feeling he had about his neighborhood began to drain and be replaced with an uneasy chill.

It started with the sight of a trash can being tossed from the darkness of a nearby alley and out onto the sidewalk in front of the still-kneeling Samson. The next thing he knew was the feeling of being hit by a quick-moving force and the taste of pavement, followed by the sounds of frantic footsteps that grew fainter and fainter before they were gone completely. Staggering to his feet, Samson wiped the side of his mouth with his coat sleeve, unsurprised when he found it wet with flecks of his blood. He made a move to reach for his grocery bag again, stopping when his curiosity about what had just happened had overridden the need to assure the safety of eggs and Wonder Bread.

Looking in the direction that he was sure he heard the footsteps heading towards; Samson only saw a line of streetlights and the outlines of other apartment buildings and was admittedly disappointed, running that frantic meant someone was, at worst, in trouble. He then thought to look in the alley way all this originated from. He immediately started to rethink this decision when lying under a fire exit was the crumbled body of known and feared vigilante, Rorschach.

Any feeling of shock that lingered from being knocked over was quickly replaced by its more primal cousin, fear. Acting on it, Samson turned sharply and raced out of the alley way, leaving Rorschach and his Wonder Bread in the dust as he bee lined it for his apartment. A few yards later, and guilt started to slow his steps. Looking back to where the buildings yawned into an alleyway, he realized that there was a still a person lying there. Helplessness had no caste; Samson knew this and briskly started walking back towards the alleyway even though the fear hadn't even begun to ebb. Something an elephant said about a person being a person no matter something or other crossed his mind but was quickly ignored as he slowed his pace and approached Rorschach.

Motionless, his left ankle at a strange angle, Rorschach was indeed, absolutely helpless. From his position, Samson took a shot in the dark and guessed he must have fallen (or pushed) off the fire exit and landed in a way the ankle bone couldn't cushion.

Nothing a quick trip to the hospital couldn't fix, Samson thought. They'd lock him away before they finished wrapping the splint, conscience argued. He deserves it, reason countered.

Who am I to judge? A broken man is a broken man. Reason fell silent.

Samson was not a particular strong man. He was healthy and decently built, yes. But he was soft, with little muscle to pad his bones. Luckily, and to his surprise, Rorschach was lighter and smaller than he had ever imagined. Carrying him, he tried to ignore the smell (which was by no means an easy task) by marveling at how a man no heavy than your average adolescent and no bigger than a woman could strike so much fear and damage unto the city's underbelly. With one quick look over his shoulder, he ducked into his apartment and braved the now very taxing stair climb to the top floor.

After carefully, but hurriedly, placing Rorschach on the floor of his living room, Samson started making a space for his unexpected guest on his old sofa by moving around some never-put-away laundry and a small mountain of _Beatles_ albums. Satisfied it was cleared away of debris, he hoisted the smaller man up again and set him down and went to work. Making a mental list of priorities, Samson decided that, for the good of them both, those filthy clothes would be the first things to go.

Out of respect for his potentially dangerous guest, he had left him in his pair of faded boxers and mask while the rest of it went straight into the laundry. There was a nagging inquisitiveness about exactly who or what was under that mask and Samson mulled over it as he went to setting Rorschach's ankle with torn bed sheets and a cut ruler as a make-shift splint. It didn't feel broken, bruised at best, but most likely not broken.

Samson first made a sigh of relief when he came to this conclusion, but that was short lived when the gravity of what he was doing finally sank in. He was hiding a wanted man from capture. He started to reason his reactions with church teachings regarding the defense of the needy. But was a man who could, and very well might, tear off his head really be that needy? Samson found something else to mull over as he draped a patch quilt over his guest. A group of nuns from his old parish had sent the quilt upon news of his leaving the church, feeling its squashy fabric gave Samson yet another thing to mull over. His mind would receive no rest tonight. With another sigh, this time one of exhaustion, Samson got up and moved towards the bedroom.

There was never any question why he left the priesthood behind. Samson loved helping people, it was in his nature. The church life was, for a time, a good outlet for this proclivity, but things always have a nasty habit of changing. As time went on and Samson grew more and more disillusioned with the changing of the age he lived in, Samson began to grow tired of hearing shallow and practiced wishes for forgiveness that piled on him more and more each passing day. His love for people never changed, but his ever bleaker attitude towards their careless and thankless ways had taken a toll on him. He would probably never stop wanting to help people for the genuine good of it alone, but it came with a price of growing contempt for the task.

In his room, Samson changed into his night clothes, and then moved into the adjacent bathroom to wash up. It was after he washed and dried his face that he realized he left his reading glasses in the living room the previous night. Swearing, a habit he ashamedly picked up after ditching the white collar, he went back into the living room. To his relief, Rorschach was still asleep (unconscious?), he could see his glasses on the table by the couch and made to get them.

Samson found himself, instead, hovering over Rorschach. Starring intently at that peculiar mask of his, he knew that it moved but now it was frozen in one unmoving and perfectly symmetrical pattern similar to the namesake the vigilante carried. His fingers itched to touch the foreign fabric, to remove it and end all curiosity. Flirting with danger, he felt the fabric where it hung onto Rorschach thin and sinewy neck. It was rough from wear, but felt like, at one point, it had been delicate and soft. This did nothing to assuage thoughts of removing it.

Just one tug, Samson thought, and I'll see his face. His real one.

Before he could even pull on the end of the mask, a long hand had his wrist in a vice-like grip. The Rorschach Blot shifted to something that could only been called an abstract form of rage.

:// Shorter than I wanted, but I got in everything I wanted for this chapter in. Please feel free to point out any grammatical errors and your own criticisms as well.  
As a side note, I would like to point out that I laughed myself sick when, in the last couple of paragraphs, I had basically plagiarized and mutilated the beach scene from _The Little Mermaid_.


End file.
